


Ashen

by DrHu



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Action Heavy, Blood, Combat heavy, Derogatory Language, Fire Emblem: Three Houses Golden Deer Route, Gen, Good is most certainly not soft, Gore, Inspired heavily by The Witcher and John Wick, Minor Character Death, Pre-Timeskip | Academy Phase (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), Strong Language, Violence, Violent Deaths, Violent kills, in this house we don't do tender
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-04
Updated: 2020-04-04
Packaged: 2021-02-28 19:28:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23472487
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DrHu/pseuds/DrHu
Summary: "You fight like a mercenary, not a knight. You hunger for victory, pure and simple."Having spent her life embroiled in combat, Byleth's way of fighting is quite different from the normal civilians and nobles who have lived within the comforts of organized society. Her students finally learn this firsthand when they're cornered by a group of unsavory personalities in the middle of the night...
Comments: 11
Kudos: 37





	Ashen

**Author's Note:**

> Sometimes a person gets a hankering to write something a little different from the norm and just go a little crazy with it. I haven't written action or combat in a while and wanted to revisit it at one point. I absolutely adore well choreographed fight scenes, and this idea was spawned after I watched the first episode of the Netflix Witcher adaptation. I've always envisioned Byleth to have a really brutal but efficient fighting style - as such, you'll see a lot lifted from The Witcher, John Wick, and Castlevania in this (because I am definitely not a professional fight choreographer). 
> 
> ONE MORE TIME in case the tags didn't enforce it enough, this is a very combat and action heavy piece with a lot of killing involved. If this isn't your thing please turn away.

The inn is bustling with activity as the students shuffle in through the door. They huddle together in silence as Byleth arranges for their rooms. The trip back from Magdred Way has been a solemn one; Lonato’s mutiny and his subsequent defeat continue to weigh heavily on the students’ minds. 

Byleth, despite her usual reticence, is at a loss. To teach one to fight was a simple enough task for her. To teach one to come to terms with the realities of combat however, was a far more difficult task. She doesn’t remember whether Jeralt ever provided advice to her on the matter; it had been her life for so long that she must have accepted it ages ago. 

So she says little on the topic, if only to avoid making it worse. 

Lodgings secured, she assigns the students their rooms for the night. Most of them file away without complaint. Only Claude strays behind. 

“No wandering about tonight, Claude,” Byleth orders. “You should rest up as much as you can so we can make it back to Garreg Mach by the end of tomorrow.” 

“Oh, don’t worry about me, Teach. I’m a pretty spry guy, so I have energy to spare. I’m not quite tired yet, so I’d much rather spend a bit more time with you.” 

Out of all the Golden Deer house, it is its house leader who somehow has remained the most chipper through recent events. Claude is reflective over the fight with the Gaspard militia, but he doesn’t seem to dwell on the losses for long. Though she would never admit it, Byleth is grateful. While she is unsuited for lifting the house’s spirits back up, perhaps she can rely on him for the job. 

“I doubt I’m interesting enough to keep you from falling asleep anyway.” 

“From your own perspective? Maybe! But everyone sees things differently, and I see you as plenty interesting. Besides, I don’t think a house leader and its main professor having some bonding time is too shabby an idea, hm?” 

If there’s one thing she’s already picked up during her short time as a teacher, it’s that Claude von Riegan is not an easy person to deter. Byleth shrugs, making her way to the small bar housed within the inn. Claude cheerily follows, eyes gleaming as he takes his place next to her at the counter. 

“Ooh, one for me too,” he asks, right after Byleth orders her own drink. 

_ “Absolutely not,”  _ she injects. It is perhaps the first time she’s ever been this strict with him; it surprises him a little. 

“Ah, why not? Isn’t it lonely, drinking alone?” 

“I have never once heard of the notion.” The barman slides her a mug of mead, and Byleth takes it to a table without another word. Claude, unable to catch the approval of the barman for himself, can do nothing but chase after her. 

“Come on, you never shared a pint with your father before? It’s  _ bonding,  _ Teach.” 

“Not really. I’m usually the one who makes sure he  _ doesn’t  _ drink himself half to death.” She takes a sip of her mead, somewhat comforted as the semi-sweet honey flavor warms her up. “I also don’t want the archbishop or Seteth to have my head for inebriating my own students.” 

“They don’t have to know!” 

“The Knights of Seiros are here. I’d rather not risk it.” 

He pouts, but it’s clear she refuses to budge on the issue. 

“Where are the knights, anyway? I thought I saw them enter town with us.” 

“Catherine mentioned they had some business here and wanted to take care of it while we passed through.”

“Any idea what that business is?” 

She shrugs, uninterested. “Something about some ruffians causing more trouble than they’d like in the area. Nothing relevant to any of us, at least.” 

It’s like talking to a brick wall, but Claude is nothing but persistent. “You don’t want to at least know a little about what your colleagues are doing?” 

“They’re knights. What else do I need to know?” 

“What do you mean, what else you need to know? They work for the Church, for Rhea. You always hear tales about their heroics across Fodlan. You’re not a dumb person, Teach; aren’t you at least a little curious about the truth of it all? About what they might really be doing?” 

She gives a small sigh. Byleth motions to a passing server, nodding towards Claude. 

“Could you bring a pot of tea for this one?” 

“Which kind?” 

She looks to her student. He thinks for a moment before requesting, “Chamomile, please.” 

The professor files away the preference into the back of her mind as the server proceeds to fulfill his request. She continues to mull over her mead, but Claude refuses to let her go easily. 

“So, the knights?” 

“You don’t give up, huh?” she grouses. “If you must know, I just don't think the knights are that different from people like me."

"People like you?"

"Mercs. The way I see it, the only big difference between knights and mercenaries is that knights have to care a lot more about their image. For me, I only need to worry about the end goal, not how I get there." 

Claude chuckles. "I'm not sure many of the knights would agree with you on that, Teach." 

"If the church had hired mercenaries to deal with Lonato, nothing would have been different. You go in, you put down the uprising, you get out. But the knights just make it look more righteous." Byleth shrugs. "I don't envy them. Fighting to win is a lot harder when you care about what people think." 

He wonders if it's the alcohol that's making her chattier than usual, or maybe he's simply found a topic she just has more say in. By now the server brings a steaming pot of tea along with a cup. Claude pours some out, intrigued by his professor's surprising openness on the subject. 

"You don't look like you fight any differently from the knights, or the rest of us, to be honest."

"You've never seen me fight," she cuts in.

"Uh, Teach? I'm pretty sure I've seen you slash a man across the chest. Multiple times, in fact."

“Throw me alone into an alleyway, one against five, and then you’d see me fight proper,” she mutters. “The bandits were a joke. And Magdred Way was too foggy for you to see anything.” 

“How do you know none of us saw?” 

“Because I guarantee you wouldn’t be looking at me the same way.” 

Byleth beckons to another passing worker to refill her mead. Claude waits until she receives a fuller cup before starting up the conversation again, fascinated by her words. If he just lets her drink enough, maybe then he can get more out of her. 

“What? Do you think you’re some kind of… big scary monster on the battlefield or something?” 

“No. I just fight to win.”

“How is that any different than what the rest of us do?” 

She rubs her eyes. “Maybe you’ll get it one day. Or, maybe it’s better that you don’t.” 

The professor falls silent once more, and no matter how hard he tries Claude can’t get much more out of her. So much for the mead. 

He sulks, but he still isn’t tired enough to retire for the night.. More schemes to draw out the professor continue to roll around the young house leader’s head, and Claude is too absorbed in his thoughts to notice the look of concentration on Byleth’s face. 

Huddled in a far corner of the room sits a group of weathered looking individuals. They stand out among the other patrons in that they’re the only ones wearing armor. Their equipment is worn and beaten, obvious signs of use. They feel familiar to her somehow, and Byleth senses a dangerous aura about them. Out of the corner of her eye, she watches as one of them looks over in her direction, while another rises from the table. He saunters up to their place in the tavern, his shadow falling between them.. It brings Claude out of his thoughts, and he looks to his teacher in confusion. Byleth doesn't react beyond taking another sip from her flagon. 

"May I help you?" she asks, almost lazily. 

"Yeah… Yeah I reckon you can," the man says in a low voice. He leans down, peering at her. Only then does she look directly at him. He's an older man, but not quite in her father's age range. He's unshaven, dark grey stubble lining his jowls and around his mouth. Parallel scars run down across one cheek, and there is no doubt that his gaze holds a degree of hostility. 

It's the scars that jog Byleth's memory. He’s a mercenary she and Jeralt had run into every now and again across different jobs. Sometimes they were on the same side, but as luck would have it, more often than not they would clash under opposing employers. And he's never won. 

"You… You’re the Ashen Demon, aren't you? The Blade Breaker's welp." 

The tension is palpable between the three of them; even Claude doesn’t dare utter a word for fear of breaking the bubble. And even if he does, he doubts it would matter. It’s like he isn’t even there, so intense is the energy rolling off the other two. 

“Rumor has it that you’ve left the trade. Taken up teaching rich brats up with the Church of Seiros.” 

Without missing a beat, she replies, “It’s a protection job. That’s why I’m out here with them.” Byleth takes another swig, looking at the mercenary straight on. “Are you here to get in my way?” 

Claude just barely twitches an eyebrow at her lie. He can understand, superficially, the reasoning behind it. Whatever the man’s intentions are, it’s clear he has a bone to pick with the professor. Perhaps she thinks a degree of distance between her and the students will disincentivize him from any violence. Maybe she doesn’t want him to think she’s growing soft, that despite turning from the life of a mercenary she’s still as deadly as ever. 

But an attack on a hired mercenary has far less weight than an attack on a teacher under their employ. Surely she would think the influence behind her new position would be greater. 

The mercenary scrutinizes her. “You and your damned pa have given me and my crew no end of trouble. Every time we meet on a job both of you make things go wrong and nothing ever works out for us. At this point we can barely get hired for the good jobs because we either lose them to you, or they see our numbers and think we can’t manage the work!” 

He’s glaring daggers at her now. Byleth stares back, unfazed as ever. “You know the rules about grudges. You’re having a hard enough time finding work now; word gets round that you came after me, you’ll be a pariah among the other mercs and you’ll have an even harder time finding jobs. 

So there’s common etiquette within the mercenary business? Claude begins to understand her reasoning a little better: a conflict with a civilian might be forgiven down the line, but picking a fight with another mercenary may ruin their chances within the market forever. Perhaps she thinks that would be scarier to the merc than anything else. 

The man sniffs, and for the first time that night he breaks eye contact, turning his gaze onto Claude instead. Uncowed, he stares back just like his teacher did, raising an eyebrow. 

“Who’s this brat?” he snarls. 

"Someone under my protection," Byleth announces. Her tone is noticeably harder than before, and there's a stronger intensity to her otherwise stoic eyes. "Unless you have official business, I suggest you walk away." 

The mercenary looks disgusted, but he still steps away from their table, throwing Byleth another venomous look before gesturing to his men. They shuffle out in a line, a few of them throwing their own dirty glances in her direction before leaving the inn. 

Despite their departure, Byleth doesn’t take her eyes off the door. Her brow is furrowed, and something broils beneath her eyes. 

Without even looking, she says, “Claude, go to bed.” 

“Huh? After that fun little exchange? Come on, Teach, now I’m even  _ less  _ tired than I was before!” 

“Go to your room. And stay there.” 

Having finished her drink, she rises from the table and looks at him expectantly. Claude sighs and reluctantly makes the trek to his room with his professor trailing behind. She watches from the end of the hallway as he slowly opens his door. 

He fidgets. Before he retires, Claude asks, “Teach? What are you going to do?” 

“I need to find Catherine.” 

“To tell her about your old pals?” 

“Maybe.” She takes a step down the stairway. “Get some rest, Claude. I’ll see you in the morning.” 

“Night, Teach.” 

He makes a conspicuous show of closing his door as Byleth goes back downstairs. Claude waits a few minutes from within, his hand still grasping the door handle. Lorenz, whom he’s rooming with, looks up from his book and gives him a critical leer. 

“What are you scheming, Claude?” he asks, exasperated. 

“Must you always be suspicious, Lorenz? No, I’m not  _ scheming.  _ I prefer to call it… keeping an eye out for our dear professor!” 

“...What?” 

“Come on, Lorenz. These streets are hardly safe for anyone walking them alone. And I’d hate for our lovely teacher to meet some grisly end at the hands of some ruffian in a dark alleyway.” 

“Professor Byleth was a well known mercenary before taking up her post at Garreg Mach,” Lorenz argues. “I hardly think she needs  _ protection,  _ especially from the likes of us.” 

“Maybe, maybe. But still, I’d rather not take the risk.” When he’s waited long enough, Claude takes a cautious look out his door. After making sure the coast is clear, he quickly steps back out of the room. 

“Wait! Claude! Where do you think you’re going?” 

“To make sure Teach is safe, of course! Keep  _ up,  _ Lorenz!” 

The door shuts before Lorenz can say another word, and he curses as he throws his book down. He tosses his jacket on and scrambles out after his house leader, muttering oaths to himself. Out of the corner of his eye he spots a flutter of Claude’s golden mantle disappearing down the stairwell. From the other end of the hallway, Leonie emerges from the washroom, staring in bewilderment at the frazzled Lorenz. 

“Lorenz? What’s happened to you?” 

“It’s Claude. He’s sneaking out after the professor for… for  _ something  _ and I can’t just leave him be…! As house leader he should know better than to do anything that might reflect poorly on the rest of the students!” 

Without a second thought he dashes down the stairs, leaving Leonie bewildered. She’s almost tempted to pretend she didn’t see anything and return to her room, but something tells her that if she doesn’t go, those two might find themselves in some deep trouble. She scurries down the stairs, chasing after them. 

They catch up with Claude outside the inn. The streets are almost empty this late at night, with only the lights from nearby homes dimly illuminating the town. Lorenz's face is an indignant pink as he grabs Claude's shoulder. 

"Are you mad?" he hisses. "Wandering the streets at night? Alone? Claude, have some  _ decorum _ , please!" 

"Ah, well, I'm not alone now, am I?" Claude corrects. "And it's not like I'm just looking for trouble. You think this is my first time walking around at night?"

"As house leader, you need to consider setting a good example for the rest of the students! You  _ are  _ the face of the Golden Deer house." 

"If you’re going to be all high and mighty about it, maybe  _ both  _ of you could set an example!” Leonie chastises. “Does it really even matter? None of us should be out this late at night anyway. You want the professor to chew us out later?” 

They casually continue to squabble as Lorenz desperately tries to convince Claude to return to the inn. No one notices the approaching footfall until Claude puts a hand up, his jovial demeanor suddenly shifting. 

"Hold on. I hear something." 

He turns to peer down a seemingly empty street more dimly lit than the rest. It takes a few moments before Lorenz and Leonie hear something. Slow, uneven footsteps echo as a slovenly figure comes into view under the low light. Claude recognizes him as one of the mercenaries he and the professor saw earlier in the inn. There are more silhouettes behind him, and Claude feels a chill settle in his gut as he plasters on a charming smile. 

“Claude? What’s going on?” Lorenz asks.

“Listen, Lorenz. Whatever problems you’ve got with me, listen to me this one time when I say that it’s time to go,” he whispers through clenched teeth. 

They begin backing away, but not before the man calls out to them. 

“Oi! You lot!” 

He’s close enough now that they can smell the stench of alcohol rolling off of him. Claude pays him no mind, quietly but urgently continuing to push the other two back in the direction of the inn. But they’re blocked by another merc, looming over them with dark, bloodshot eyes. His gaze twitches over at Claude, and recognition flickers across his face. 

“You’re the brat from before,” he growls. 

“You  _ know  _ these ruffians?” Lorenz asks, incredulous. 

Claude resists the urge to slam his foot into his fellow student’s. The man narrows his eyes at the young man, and by now his drunken companion has caught up to them. The young Riegan quickly glances around them, searching for a way out. 

“Fucking kids, ignoring someone when they got something to say,” the drunken one mumbles. “What’d you say before, Bram?” 

“This one.” The one named Bram juts his chin at Claude. “He was the one before, with the Eisner girl.” 

“Oh, hey there, fellas,” he greets, trying to sound casual. “You looking for anyone in particular? Miss Eisner was just on her way to meet us.”

He throws a quick glance at his two companions, hoping that they’ll catch on. Lorenz is still too bewildered to say anything, and Leonie wears a serious expression, but their silence is helpful enough. 

At the mention of their professor, the one named Bram spits. “Fuck the Eisner bitch,” he snarls. “Her and her damn father can burn for all the trouble they’re worth.” His angry eyes swivel over the three students, and none of them can hold back the chills that run down their spine. Footsteps from behind tell them that they’ve caught the attention of a whole group, and the drunken one is so close that his liquor-ridden breath curdles at their noses. Escape routes and schemes of all sorts run through Claude’s head as he desperately searches for a way out. 

Lorenz has had enough, making a retching sound at the stench. “Have you louts no common decency? Take a few steps back,  _ please.”  _

“The fuck did you say, brat?” the drunken one demands. The student recoils, his lip curled in disgust. 

“Brat?! I’ll not have you speak to me that way! I am the heir to the Leicester Alliance’s prodigious House Gloucester! Must I teach you rabble some proper manners?!” 

If they could, Leonie and Claude would have collectively clapped their hands over their faces. But their exasperation dissipates at the waves of hostility suddenly rolling off their present company. A discontented murmur runs through them, and Bram and the drunk step closer. 

“Shut your mouth, you noble pissant,” Bram hisses. “I’m sick of you high and mighty lot and your fucked jobs. What I wouldn’t give to shut you up.” 

“Heh, why not listen to them squeal a little instead, Bram?” the drunk chortles. He tosses his head behind him and yells out, “Whaddya say, everyone? Wanna see some noble brats squirm?”

“The Eisner girl might not like that,” someone murmured. 

Someone else spits in response. “What’s the cunt to do without her damn father around? She can’t save anybody from shit that’s already happened, anyway.” 

Low cheers run through the rest of the company. Leonie gives Lorenz a sharp elbow nudge as the three students huddle closer together. Claude’s whole body is tense, ready to fight or fly at a moment’s notice. 

He’s about to spring into action when another, different set of footsteps come toward them. 

“There you are. I’ve been looking all over for you.” 

Byleth emerges from around the corner, her expression unreadable as she approaches them. She’s wearing nothing different from before, the only additions being her signature black overcoat and a longsword resting at her side. Her eyes flicker over the scene, resting on Claude a little longer than the rest before moving on. 

He can’t believe her timing, and all three of them breathe a sigh of relief. The professor appears perfectly calm as she regards the mercenary company. 

“I’ve told you before wandering the streets at night is dangerous. Time to go.” 

But before they can flee to her side, Bram steps between them, leering down at Byleth with a malicious fire in his gaze. 

“So you finally showed up,” he snarls. 

“Yes, and I’ve come to take my charges,” she replies, almost too casually. “I apologize if they’ve caused you any trouble. Please excuse us.” 

Other members of the company are shifting their attention from the students to Byleth. Claude almost shudders at the dark expressions in their eyes, some drunken, others not. Their leader, the man who accosted them first in the inn, is nowhere to be seen, and while he didn’t seem itching for a fight then, his brigade seems less inclined to follow that path. 

“Just because Captain Rackam didn’t want to make a scene doesn’t mean we don’t still have a bone to pick with ya,” Bram continues to growl. “You and your shithead pa fucked us over more times than I care to count.”

“Nothing I can do about that.” 

She elegantly sidesteps him, reaching her three charges. Byleth’s eyes are unreadable as they briefly settle on each of them, assessing them for any injuries. Placing a hand on Claude’s back, she quietly begins ushering them out of the small mob of mercenaries. But some resist, and one steps in to block their path. 

“Hey now, we ain’t done with ya, yet,” she growls. 

“Is that a threat? May I remind you all that the Knights of Seiros are also here, and they  _ will  _ catch wind of this. And they don’t take threats to their students lightly.” 

“Ha! Look at ‘er, the mighty Ashen Demon, hidin’ behind her shiny knights,” someone mocks. “Not so ashen when Daddy’s not around, are ya?” 

More taunts are thrown her way, but Byleth barely blinks. But the tension refuses to abate, and the hostility only continues to rise as the mercs show no sign of standing down. 

The drunken man from before is by far the worst, being so brazen as to wander closer than any of the others. He laughs in their faces, spraying spittle everywhere. Lorenz is indignant beyond belief, but this time even he’s smart enough to keep his mouth shut. Claude continues to frantically piece together a plan that would get them all out unscathed, but the window is closing. 

In response, their professor slides between them and the drunk, and her eyes have taken on a harder quality. The crowd perhaps doesn’t catch it, but Claude feels something almost  _ dangerous  _ emanating from her. 

“I suggest you keep your distance. Otherwise I can’t guarantee your safety,” she warns in a low tone. 

It’s enough to catch the drunk’s attention. He reverts back into a disgruntled stupor, leaning into her face with a lip curled in disgust. 

“Whatcha say, you cunt?” he snarls. “What the hell can one little wench do? You think you’re so much better than us? You think you can stop me if I do  _ this?”  _

A hand shoots out, wrapping its greasy fingers around Lorenz’s arm. He’s knocked a little off balance as the drunk wrenches him towards him. A look of panic crosses the student’s face as the small horde only laughs. Leonie and Claude stiffen, steadily shifting into defensive stances as the situation slowly spirals downwards. 

The assailant only continues to chortle. “You hogshit brats, it’s about fucking time someone taught you some--” 

He’s interrupted by a sudden spray of red. The night is abruptly pierced with an agonized cry as the drunk reels away from his captive, clutching nothing but a bloody stump. The severed hand falls away, and even Lorenz gives a yelp as he recoils from it. 

He hurriedly returns to Leonie and Claude, and they all simply gape in astonishment at the sight of their professor, her drawn sword glinting silver and red under the moonlight as fresh blood dribbles down the blade. 

It feels everyone is frozen in time, completely caught off guard by the turn of events. Those couple of seconds seemed to stretch on forever, but Claude can see the slow, devastating collision about to occur. In that brief span of time, the professor utters one thing. 

“ _ Run.”  _

Time begins to turn once more, and over the broken shrieks of the newly-made one-handed man writhing on the cobblestones, multiple battle cries ring out. Several of the mercs rush forward with weapons unsheathed, murder in their eyes. Claude, Leonie, and Lorenz scramble away as Byleth dodges backward. A glyph briefly appears before her, and a fountain of flames sprays forth from her hands as she creates a barrier to separate herself from the angry mob. They falter at the sudden heat, unwillingly to cross the semi-circle of fire. It gives Byleth just enough time to retreat closer to her students. 

Her face is tight, brow furrowed and eyes severe. The three students are still recovering from shock, but Byleth has little time, and little patience to spare. 

“Hey. Snap out of it. I need you to go and find the knights,” she commands. 

“W-wait a second. The knights? You’re not seriously thinking of taking all these guys on at once?!” Leonie asks, incredulous. 

“There’s no time to argue, Leonie. I need you to go and find help,  _ now.”  _

“Teach, you sure you can--” 

The flames die down in that instant, and charging in from the other side comes a man, brandishing a blade high above his head. Byleth wheels around just in time for the man to come close; she swings her sword in a forward arc with one hand, knocking her foe’s weapon away. She swings again in reverse, swatting his other arm away and knocking him off balance. He stumbles to his knees before her, with one swift thrust her sword pierces into his mouth and all the way through the other side. Two hands on the blade, and the hilt arcs upward, the silver edge slicing cleanly through the man’s cranium and splitting his head in two. 

It’s brutal, callously efficient, and Byleth moves with such grace and ease that once again the students are left speechless. The corpse lays haplessly on the stony ground, eyes wide and listless, blood spilling from the sundered skull and pooling along the seams of the stone. 

Claude feels shivers as he remembers something she said earlier in the evening. 

_ “You’ve never seen me fight.”  _

She was right. Not like this, never like this. 

_ “Because I guarantee you wouldn’t be looking at me the same way.”  _

She’s glaring back at them again, her grey eyes burning with fierce yet controlled urgency. 

“Go!” 

He doesn’t question her again. Claude pivots, smacking the other two on their shoulders to get them moving. Still bewildered, they start sprinting down the direction they just came. Leonie’s gaze stays on Byleth, constantly flickering back and forth between her and the crumpled body lying next to her. 

“Leonie!” 

She somehow manages to rip her eyes away to focus on running, but the memory of the professor’s blade cleaving the man’s face in two doesn’t disappear easily as the three retreat into the night. 

Byleth lets out a very small sigh of relief. But the feeling is short lived when the clumsy, loud footfalls of another merc approaches. It’s easy enough to push away their weapon with her own, using the continuous spin of her body to flow into a slash across their stomach that puts them down. Another foolish victim stumbles forward and Byleth parries before finishing with a straight thrust through the abdomen. 

Many of them are drunk, their movements sluggish and ungainly, giving her the advantage. The one small comfort, she thinks, considering she’s not as equipped as she could be to take on a gang of thugs. The small regret comes to a head when a pair of arms ensnares her from behind, attempting to wrench her off her feet. Gritting her teeth, Byleth snaps her head back, crushing her assailant’s nose. They reel back in pain, but she keeps their arms secured around her as she forces them backwards. The professor slams them into the wall of a building on the other side of the small street, throwing off their arms and wrenching them towards a nearby window. Byleth hurls their head through the glass, and a thousand shards scatter across the street. With nothing left of the window aside from a few long, jagged pieces, she snatches a fistful of the person’s hair, ignoring their cries of pain as she yanks their head back. 

She shoves it down, smashing it through a large remaining piece of glass. It tears through the soft flesh of their throat, all the way to the other side of the neck. The merc dies with a gurgle, and Byleth leaves their body hanging from the glass pike. Flecks of blood not her own are splattered across her face, but she gives little thought to them. 

The next one dashes in, swinging a sword at her head. Byleth ducks and grabs a loose shard of glass from the ground, driving it into their thigh. Swiping another, she rises and pulls forward her victim, plunging it into an eye. She pushes that one away, right into the new foe vying for her attention. He stumbles and she charges, slashing the unsuspecting man across the face. He gives a cry, blinded, and the professor locks an arm around his neck and holds him in front of her. It’s just in time, as a hand axe flies toward them and lodges itself into her captive’s shoulder. He screeches, only for more to come, hitting his leg, his stomach, and finally his chest. When he at last stills, she plucks an axe from his body while her other arm shoots up to guard against the downward strike coming from his approaching ally. She kicks her foe, knocking their shins from out under them before swinging down and burying the hatchet between their eyes with a soft  _ crunch.  _

It’s quiet, if only for a few seconds. Byleth catches her breath as out of the corner of her eye, she spots the one named Bram furiously step up. Out of all the mercenaries, he’s the only one with a shield. He bullrushes her with a vicious snarl, shield up and sword raised. She removes the hatchet from her previous victim and rolls to the side to dodge, right before he lashes out with his buckler. It nearly catches her across the face had she not danced a step back in time, and Bram uses the momentum to strike with his blade. Her sword arm shoots up, blocking the blow with her own, and with her other hand she swings. The axe cleaves through Bram’s forearm, and he screams as more blood spatters across the ground, across her clothes. 

Byleth hacks at him again, embedding the blade into his shield. With a mighty tug she wrests it from his grasp, tossing the axe aside along with it. The motion pulls him toward her and Byleth kicks him in the stomach, giving her enough time to snatch his own sword from the dismembered hand lying on the stone. She lunges forward and runs him through with the borrowed blade, running and forcing him backwards until he hits a wall. 

Even at the point of death, he continues to glare at her with maddening hatred. Byleth returns it with a cold, distant look, and with a smooth forward sweep, she slices his head clean from his shoulders. 

The sound of battle cries and clashing metal dies down, and the night comes to a still. She catches her breath as her shoulders sag. She barely gives the fresh corpses a glance as she starts walking away, thinking about how far her students could have gone. 

But she’s forgotten one element. From the other end of the street, another figure appears, pausing at the carnage before him. 

“You…!” 

Byleth stops midstep. Turning over her shoulder, she spots the company leader from the inn, the one Bram called Rackam. She can feel his enmity all the way from where she’s standing, and even under the low light she can see the livid gleam in his gaze. 

“You bitch. You fucking  _ bitch,”  _ he spits. 

She lowers her weapon, just a little as a last ditch effort, but she knows it’s a lost cause. “Rackam, don’t.” 

He pays no heed to her warning and draws his weapons. Two menacing blades gleam at her under the moonlight, reflecting the vicious fury burning in their wielder’s stare. Rackam advances, strides full of power, blades crossed. 

Byleth knows there’s no running away. Rackam lunges forth, aiming for her face as he thrusts the tip of his sword forward. She swings her body from side to side to dodge the repeated strikes. He switches to swings, spinning his body to give his arm momentum as he slashes. Byleth parries with her own blade, barely managing to deflect another blow as he spins in the opposite direction. 

Rackam rotates again, and Byleth ducks as his weapon swishes overhead. She kicks out her leg in a sweep, knocking him onto the ground. Quickly she rises and stabs her blade downwards, only for him to roll away just in time. He’s on his feet again, weapons at the ready. It’s clear to her now why he was the leader of the band: the man’s combat prowess was clearly above the rest of his troop, even the ones who weren’t drunk out of their minds. 

“Can’t beat me with just swordplay, can ye?” he goads. “You fucking wench, have to resort to your tricks now, eh?” 

She pays him no mind as she advances. He bears two shortswords, one longer than the other, but both are still smaller than the singular blade she wields. With both hands she aims for his head as she slices. Rackam bounces her blows off his weapons, but the combined heaviness of the metal and speed at which she fights surprises him. He twists, veers, and weaves, the sound of their blades colliding ringing in their ears as she forces him back. 

At one point he’s able to catch some of her force and manages to draw some distance between them as he’s pushed away. Behind his back Rackam hurriedly switches the blades between his hands, hoping to catch her off guard with the altered speed of his strikes. Yet before he can move a bright light hurdles toward him. Rackam cries out with a curse as he just barely dodges the fire spell Byleth launched at him. 

He stumbles again, creating even more distance between them. It’s enough for him to catch his breath, and he once again stares down at his opponent. The flames licking the ground are reflected in her cold ashen eyes. All this time and she doesn’t display an ounce of fear or anger. It’s like staring at a wall, a stony fortress of a human being filled with nothing but an unshakeable, ironclad determination to win. 

On another occasion, perhaps he would have been cowed. But the mutilated corpses of his company are strewn about around them, and Rackam doesn’t see an option to run. He rushes forward again, hoping to close the distance between them quickly enough before she can use more magic. 

Byleth, seeing him charge, abandons her spells and runs to meet him. But he’s swifter than before, and she struggles to adjust her own speed as he lashes out, again and again. They’re lighter strikes, but they come one after another in rapid succession. She can’t move fast enough with both hands on her weapon, and she makes the mistake of letting one go in an effort to be more mobile. Rackam sees his chance and slashes again, this time with some added force. Without the extra buoy of an additional hand, the shift in the weight of the blow causes her to reel for just a fraction of a second, but it’s all he needs. His other hand whips forward, and she moves her free arm between them on instinct. The blade connects, slicing across her skin. Byleth growls and throws him off, pushing herself away from him. 

The cut stings, and blood drips down her hand. She flexes her fingers and ignores the biting sensation, readying herself as Rackam charges at her once more. 

He strikes at her the same as before, one hand after the other. This time, Byleth is better prepared. Their blades bounce off one another as she continuously counters his blows.

But he has more tricks up his sleeve. Rackam is able to hold his two swords together at the hilts and he swings them as one would a spear. She’s on the defensive again, and it comes to a head when he turns and stabs decisively behind him. She’s only able to stop the blow by grabbing the weapon by the hand, and Rackam snarls as he wrenches out of her grasp. Byleth hisses as the blade carves across her thigh and her palm. 

The adrenaline pulses through her every vein. Annoyed, she parries another blow before aiming down at where his folded hands hold both blades together. He pulls them apart just in time to avoid her blade, wielding two separate weapons once more. Byleth takes her chance, lunging forward faster and with more ferocity than ever. Rackam can’t keep up, barely able to block her blows that alternate between one-handed and two-handed. Deep inside, the first signs of dread begin to grow as he realizes that she may have been holding back for the entire first part of the fight. 

The Ashen Demon swings, knocking away his blades again and again as she gains control of the fight. At one point he can’t hold her back with one sword at a time anymore, and as she pivots, aiming for a side slash, he catches her sword with both of his own, hoping to hold it in place. 

Despite this, in a split moment he’s astonished that it’s a one-handed slash, and he can barely hold it back with both his hands. One arm free, it sneaks from under, grabbing hold of the sword pushing just beneath her own. With a single forceful push she shoves it right out of his grasp, and her own blade sings through the air as it sinks forth, right through his chest. 

Rackam can only open his mouth and gasp weakly in surprise. Byleth yanks the sword out, and he falls to his knees. Without batting an eye, she seizes his face with one hand, and a ferocious blaze pours forth from her palm. The mercenary captain doesn’t even have time to scream before his flesh melts under her grip, and the fire razes his entire body within a few seconds. 

The smell of burnt flesh permeates the air, and Rackam’s charred corpse crumples onto the cobblestone when she finally lets go. She steps away from it, her nose just a little crinkled at the unsavory odor. 

Right at that moment, she hears cries not too far in the distance. Her students come rushing toward her, Catherine and some other knights in tow. 

“Professor! Professor, we brought the knights!” Lorenz calls. 

But when they get close enough, the students halt, taking in the scene. Several bodies lay lifeless and bleeding across the ground. Some of them seemed to meet their ends at the hands of shards of glass, while others had their bodies ravaged by axes. There’s one that’s missing an arm, and at their teacher’s feet lies a grotesque formation of blackened flesh and bones, unrecognizable at this point. The smell reaches all the way to them, and Lorenz gags, recoiling. Leonie is horrified, taking a few steps back as well. Only Claude can keep a relatively straight face, and even he is wide-eyed as he takes it all in. 

“Well then. It looks like your professor doesn’t need our help after all,” Catherine notes. She’s completely unfazed as she ambles up to Byleth. 

“You’re late,” the professor half-heartedly admonishes. 

Catherine opens her arms up. “We hurried here as fast we could. Your students were convinced they’d come back to find you in pieces. Luckily it seems like you had everything covered.” She surveys the corpses laying about. “What do you know about these louts?” 

“They were a mercenary group. I’ve encountered them a few times in the past. Seems like they had a grudge against my father and me.” 

“A grudge? Isn’t it against mercenary code to act on grudges?” 

“Yes, but they had a bit too much to drink and wanted to pick a fight, I guess.” 

The knight laughs. “And they were unlucky enough to actually run into you, huh? Well now, Professor, I have to say you’re really not too shabby in the fighting department.” 

“Hm.” 

Byleth walks away, towards a collapsed body. It’s the drunk man from before who was the first to lose his arm; he’s still alive, whimpering as he nurses the severed limb. Catherine continues to casually follow the professor, glancing curiously at the fallen man. 

“You wouldn’t happen to know the name of any leader these poor sods might have had, would you?” 

“Rackam.” 

Catherine nods. “It looks like you saved the knights a little bit of trouble, Professor. These are the ones who were reported to be harassing civilians. Pillaged their way through this little strip of Faerghus, the scum.” 

“So you don’t particularly care that they’re dead?” 

“Hardly. If they weren’t going to be convinced to stop, we would have had to take them out anyway.” 

Byleth stares down at the whimpering figure. “Good to know.” 

Before anyone can say anything else, she plants one foot on his head and with a single forceful push, she snaps his neck with a loud  _ crack.  _ He falls silent at last, and her students look on with revulsion. 

“Aren’t you straight to the point? I like that. Anyway, the knights can handle any cleanup. Why don’t you find one of our healers and get yourself patched up? And get the rest of your students turned in for the night.” 

She nods, silently slipping away. Catherine notes that even with a leg injury, the professor doesn’t so much as show a hint of pain. She whistles under her breath, turning towards the dead man on the ground. 

“They don’t call her ashen for nothing, it seems,” she muses. “This lady doesn’t leave a shred of anything behind when she’s done.” 

She calls out orders to the other knights, and they get to work. Meanwhile, the professor takes a moment to check in with her students. Lorenz has since recovered from his fit, and the three are at a loss of words when their teacher approaches. 

“I’m going to get myself looked at, and then we’re going back to the inn. And  _ staying  _ there,” she orders, looking directly at Claude when she says this. Any time before this, he perhaps would have dealt out a nice quip. But for the first time since he’s met the former mercenary, Claude feels a certain degree of fear. He wasn’t here during the fight, but he didn’t need to be. The aftermath is all he needs, and he begins to understand why she and her father were so renowned within their former profession. If Teach wants to get a job done, it gets  _ done.  _

“Professor, I don’t…” 

Leonie barely finds her voice again. She’s shaken, on edge and apprehensive. 

“Yes, Leonie?” 

“How could you… How could you do this, Professor? All those people, all those bodies… How could you do that to them?” 

Byleth cocks her head at her student. “You sound like you don’t think my father fights the same way.” 

“What? No way! Captain Jeralt would never--” 

“ _ My father _ is a fighter, and one who knows how to survive. Who do you think was the one who taught me how to fight?” 

Leonie blubbers, struggling to come up with a response. Byleth continues. 

“This is something you’ll need to learn at some point, Leonie. As mercs, our one duty is to get the job done, and to live to see another day. If that means having to fight tooth and nail and using whatever dirty trick you have on hand to do so, then that’s the way it has to be. I’m sorry if you had other ideas about what the lifestyle is like.” 

Lorenz chimes in. “But that’s barbaric! Where’s the honor? The chivalry? Fighting that way means we’re hardly above beasts in that regard!” 

She turns his gaze on him, and it’s the first time they’ve seen their teacher’s eyes so intense. Byleth isn’t angry, but she exudes enough power that Lorenz immediately presses his lips shut. 

“Honor? Chivalry? Those are luxuries that don’t exist in my world, Lorenz. Do you think those mercenaries had any grasp of honor when they charged at me, nine to one? Do you think they would have lined up nicely and fought me one at a time? In a better world, maybe that would’ve been the reality. But it’s not in mine. And if you have a problem with that and the things I teach, then you have my permission to transfer to another class.” 

The young nobleman’s eyes grow wide. Having said her piece, Byleth shakes her head. 

“We’ll talk more once we return to Garreg Mach. Make sure you three turn in  _ right away  _ when we return to the rest of the class.”

She stalks off, spotting a healer among the working knights. Leonie and Lorenz wilt in the silence, rolling around their teacher’s words. Despite the carnage, or perhaps because of it, Claude feels a small bit of renewed respect for the professor. 

“She’s right, you know. Fighting by conventional rules is just a quick way to get yourself killed. And you’re probably not even dying for something worthwhile,” he chips in. 

“Quiet, Claude, nobody asked you,” Lorenz hushes. But it’s clear that the professor’s words struck a nerve in him.

As they wait for Byleth to finish, Catherine saunters up to them. 

“How are we doing? Still waiting for your teacher?” 

“Catherine… About the professor…” Leonie begins. 

“Hm? What’s going on?” 

“You’re a knight, so what do you think about….all of this? Fighting like this can’t be exactly... _ right,  _ don’t you think?” 

Catherine shrugs. “Who cares about being right? When you’ve got a legion of people who want you dead bearing down on you, what’s right and what’s wrong aren’t really so important anymore.” 

“You’re a Holy Knight of Seiros, and you really don’t think the professor went too far--” 

“No. She did what she was supposed to. Protected  _ you  _ and protected herself. You guys are a bit young, but you have to learn eventually that what you think is ‘winning’ isn’t the same for everyone. For some, winning might mean just beating your opponent. But for people like your professor, and for a lot of us seasoned fighters out there, it means beating your opponent,  _ and  _ making sure they never do the same thing ever again. And a lot of the time that means taking their lives, with whatever means are available. I’m a little jealous, honestly. At least the professor has an easier time cutting loose compared to us knights.” 

“What do you mean by that?” 

“Working in the service of the Church of Seiros means we have a certain image to uphold. Hard to do that if people see us stabbing everyone left and right with broken pieces of glass through the face. No, no, you guys have a good teacher, if combat is what you’re aiming to learn. She’s not likely to sugarcoat anything that’s liable to get you killed. Now, if you’ll excuse me…” 

Catherine claps her hands on Lorenz and Leonie’s shoulders before returning to the rest of the knights. All that’s left for them is to wait on their professor. 

“You really thinking about leaving the Golden Deer, Lorenz?” Claude probes. 

“I don’t--There are many things to consider in a decision like that. I’d have to return and…” 

Claude rolls his eyes as his fellow student mumbles to himself. He has a feeling Lorenz won’t walk away. He looks to Leonie, staring off into the distance deep in thought. Though frustrated, she seems more contemplative than indignant at the moment. Claude doesn’t feel like he needs to worry about her either. 

What a night, he thinks to himself. Byleth Eisner might not be much for talking, but her actions speak well enough for themselves, and he likes that. The young Riegan stares idly up at the night sky, pondering the enigma that is Garreg Mach’s newest faculty member. What a hell of a story this’ll be later.   


**Author's Note:**

> PLEASE APPRECIATE YOUR FIGHT CHOREOGRAPHERS, THEY DO AMAZING AND VERY DIFFICULT WORK! 
> 
> Thank you so much for reading! Kudos and comments are always appreciated!


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